A Study in Sickness
by ingrid-matthews
Summary: Promptfic: Holmes comforts a sick Watson in his own unusual way.


xXx

Watson rarely has children as patients.

It's not because he doesn't like them, in fact, the exact opposite is true. He loves them and finds it hard to muster up the necessary emotional distance to facilitate effective treatment, as too great an attachment can prove fatal.

Not to mention that the little buggers are more contagious than mosquitoes and ship rats combined.

Still, he occasionally finds himself indulging his more regular patients with a look at their little nieces and nephews who are invariably visiting from the country and have fallen ill not ten minutes after their arrival in London.

One such miniature patient is there that morning. Just a bad cold and Watson gently encourages him to open his mouth for a look at tonsils that are no doubt horribly inflamed.

The boy obeys easily and Watson leans in for a peek. "Very good. Now ..."

_"ACHFLOO!"_

The sneeze is particularly wet, especially disgusting and has landed directly into his mouth. Watson is a professional, so he doesn't choke, doesn't spit, doesn't run in circles while scraping his tongue off with anything he can grab.

He simply wipes his lips with the back of his hand and grins painfully. "Let's try that again. Shall we?"

The little boy nods.

xXx

Watson prepares his bed that evening as if preparing for battle. Pitcher of water, check. Clean handkerchiefs, yes. Hot water bottle, thermometer, rags for cooling of forehead ... all at the ready.

Watson settles into bed with a deep sigh and begins the wait.

From the doorway, Holmes watches this activity with interest. "Got you, did he?"

"Right in the mouth," Watson says gloomily, not bothering to question Holmes' omiscience. "I suggest you steer clear of me while I incubate."

Holmes frowns. "That won't do. To leave you hatching some dastardly disease all alone."

"You may hatch it with me, if you like, but I guarantee you'll regret it. Now, shoo. Leave me to my fate."

"I'll never forget you, Watson." Holmes salutes smartly, with only a small amount of irony. He leaves and there's quiet, until from the study comes the strains of _The British Grenadiers_ as played on violin.

Watson slouches underneath the covers, wondering if perhaps he should have coughed on Holmes after all.

xXx

The cold hits with the force of a typhoon. Like most childhood ailments caught by an adult, this one is virulent and uncomfortable in the extreme. His head throbs, his throat burns and his nose would be much more comfortable if it were amputated ... immediately.

He can't think, can't breathe and when Holmes stands in the doorway, disturbed by his groans, he merely flaps his hands helplessly at him. "What can I do for you, dear boy? You sound awful."

Watson hacks and waves him off. "Run for your life," he rasps, but it comes out as "Nun ger fur biff" which even Holmes can't quite figure out.

"Poor fellow. More tea?"

"Nugfu. Guhway."

"Nothing at all?"

"Nug. Fetutnoa!"

With a sad frown, Holmes wanders back to the study. Watson hears him rummaging around the desk for a few minutes, followed by an odd - unnatural - quiet. At least for Holmes.

He's too sick to question it. Sleep doesn't come and the hours pass painfully. He tosses and groans and starts making gloomy jokes about his service revolver to himself. It's intolerable and he's just about to get up and crawl into the study to die on the floor if only for a change of scenery when Holmes reappears in the doorway, a clipped sheaf of papers in his hand.

He tosses it on the bed and leaves without a word.

Watson blinks and retrieves the papers. Peers at Holmes' elegant scrawl and can't quite believe what he's reading.

_A Study of Dr. John H. Watson, Partner to Sherlock Holmes, Detective._

The title alone makes him laugh, which in turn makes him cough. He flips past the first page and starts reading. It appears to be a pastiche of his own writings about Holmes, except that he is the main figure and it's so ridiculous and engrossing, he completely forgets that he is sick.

Especially since writing 'florid fiction' is not Holmes' forte.

_John H. Watson. He is a doctor, soldier and invaluable companion. These are the simple facts, stated clearly. Was introduced to him by a fop and I now find myself treating fops with greater respect, so great is my gratitude to him for introducing us. _

_Watson is wise and enamoured of my brilliance, which suits him and myself very well. Having an excellent doctor on the premises is convenient, especially considering my somewhat injurious line of work. He's also - and this is pure fact - dashedly handsome which is pleasant to contemplate in the mornings when there is nothing else to look at but an overweight bulldog or our Nanny whose scowling countenance would make Medusa weep._

_John Watson hates baboons nearly as much as myself. Awful creatures, as we discovered on a case together. Why would anyone keep such things in their house? He was as mystified as I._

_Also not too fond of poisonous snakes. As mentioned above, Watson is wise._

Astonished, he keeps reading and can't stop laughing. His cold is secondary to this wonder in his hands. He blows his nose, drinks more tea and devours the rest right to the end.

_In conclusion, I cannot do without my Boswell, as it's very obvious I have no skill in writing. As for Watson the man, I cannot do without him either so I hope he gets well soon that we may again contemplate the mysteries of the macabre as well as Mrs. Hudson's hidden evil."_

~*~

Watson recovers two days later, at least enough to get dressed and join a delighted Holmes for breakfast. "Are you better then? You were having an awful time of it there."

"Not so awful," Watson smiles over his teacup. "I had some excellent reading material."

Holmes looks away, but underneath, Watson can see the grin.

~*~

end

Reviews welcome!


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